


The Human Condition (a series in vignettes), Pt. I & Pt. II

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-27 05:20:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8388838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: Set after Dean kicks newly human Cas out of the bunker and the reader offers him a place to stay. Basically this is a series, published in vignettes (each in a new chapter), of shorts involving daily domestic life with the former angel. Pt. I contains the first collection. For simplicity, also adding Pt. II to this work. Pt. II is in progress.





	1. Pt. I - Prologue

You were headed for the bunker library in a cacophony of squeaks, laboriously pushing a dusty film projector cart and feeling thoroughly like the school tech nerd. A reel of film became unbalanced from the bottom of the cart, careened to the floor, and rolled behind you settling with a metallic clatter.  
“Cas, thanks,” you smiled at the newly human former angel when you turned around and came face to face with his shocking blue eyes and he proffered you the escaped reel, “Movie is in 10, or whenever I can get this…thing…” Your sentence trailed off as you took note of the small duffle bag thrown over his shoulder.  
He saw the unspoken question written across your features, and looked between his feet apprehensively.  
“You’re leaving?” You couldn’t disguise the shock in your tone, “You just got here.”  
He tensed his lips into a thin line, meeting your eyes, “Dean said I cannot stay here.”  
You scrunched your nose up in confusion, “Wait, what? Why?”  
He shrugged, “I’m certain he has a good reason.”  
“He had better have!” You angrily tossed the film reel onto the bottom of the cart and turned on your heel, fully intending to hunt Dean down and convince him to allow Cas to stay.  
“Y/N, wait!” Cas grabbed your arm, “Please don’t.” He’d known you long enough now to fear your fiery temper, and wanted to avoid conflict ignited on his behalf, “It’s okay, it’s not safe for you and Sam and Dean for me to be here.”  
You stopped, snorting through your nose, “The bunker is warded, it’s the safest place for you to be. For any of us to be.”  
He gazed steadily into your eyes, holding fast your arm, “It’s my choice.”  
Your thoughts faltered at his words, wondering if they were true or not. Speechless, you wrapped your arms tightly around him with a sigh of resignation. You cared for him more than you’d even admitted to yourself before the events of the past weeks. You took it for granted that he’d always be around, or at least only a prayer away.  
For once, he didn’t hesitate in returning your embrace, nestling his prickly chin against your neck.  
You held on to him for a long time, long enough for you to decide he couldn’t go alone. You reluctantly released him, “I have a safe house a few hours from here. You’ll stay there.”  
He nodded assent, “It won’t be any trouble?”  
“It’s the least I can do. Not to mention I owe you,” you silently added to yourself that Dean owed him more than anyone.  
“You owe me nothing,” he cocked his head, perplexed.  
“How many times have you saved me?” You flashed him a cheery smile, “I wouldn’t be alive right now if it wasn’t for you.”  
“And you would do the same for me,” Cas retorted.  
“Exactly,” your smile deepened.  
“Oh,” Cas smiled back, “Thank you.”

You had abandoned the cumbersome projector cart where it stood, telling Cas you would meet him in the garage in a few minutes. In your bedroom, you hastily emptied the drawers of the dresser and nightstand into a duffle bag, sliding the contents of the bookshelf into the abyss of it with a single sweep of your arm. Everything in the closet got jammed in on top - not that you had more than a few changes of clothing anyway. It wasn’t the first time you were picking up roots and making a rushed break for it. Hell, you still kept the other half of what you owned in the trunk of your car. You looked around the now barren room a final time, switching off the light, and ducking into the hall. There were some books you wanted in the library that you thought might help with Cas’ grace-less situation, and you weren’t leaving without them. As quietly as possible, you set your duffle outside the library doorway and casually strode into the room, nodding your head in greeting when Sam looked up from a chair. You browsed several unrelated shelves before locking onto your target, piling five volumes of heavy text into the crook of your arm.  
“Catching up on some reading tonight,” you smiled at Sam as you slipped out of the room.  
“Yeah, sleep is overrated,” Sam smiled back, pointing to his laptop.  
Outside the room, you breathed a sigh of relief that Dean was not in there. You were furious, and even though Cas didn’t want you to say anything, you weren’t sure you could hold back. You shoved the books into the already stuffed duffle, heaving it over your shoulder with a grunt.  
“Going somewhere?” Dean cleared his throat behind you, leaning against the doorframe.  
You bit your lip, glaring back at him, “Helping a friend, which is more than I can say for you.”  
He shifted uneasily, “Trust me, Cas is better off out there.”  
“Cas needs you, he’s family,” your voice laced with bitterness, “He almost died out there.”  
“I know,” his posture was leaden with shame.  
“You have a funny way of showing it,” you stared at him, not understanding why he was insisting on doing something that obviously caused him pain. At the same time, you wanted to respect Cas’ wishes that you not interfere and didn’t press further.  
Dean glanced through the library door to Sam, again shuffling his feet uncomfortably.  
You followed his gaze, sensing something was not being said, but you couldn’t care about that right now, “I’m taking Cas to Everly Street.”  
He nodded understanding, refusing to meet your eyes.  
“Dean, I won’t be back,” you muttered and turned to leave.  
Dean ran a hand through his hair, watching you walk away, repeating again under his breath, “I know.”


	2. Homecoming

“Welcome,” you swung the front door open and gestured for Cas to enter, moving behind him to turn on a light, “Upstairs, first door on the right. There are clean sheets and towels in the hall closet.”  
Cas picked up a photo frame from the end table, curiously studying the joyful little girl in braids and the doting woman gazing down at her lovingly. He turned to you, “Y/N, is this your home?”  
You nodded, “I guess you could say that, I mostly grew up here.”  
He stared back at the picture, “What was it like…being a child?”  
You took a deep breath, trying to find the right words, finally stating, “The world was full of endless possibilities.”  
“That sounds pleasant,” he smiled to himself.  
“It is, until you learn that the world is actually full of monsters,” you reached out to take the picture from him, carefully putting it back in its place on the end table, “Let’s not talk about the past.”  
“I’m sorry,” his brow furrowed apologetically.  
“No, don’t be,” you were tired, still angry at Dean for kicking Cas out, and redirecting your frustration toward the last person you wanted to hurt, “I just…today was a lot to take in. We’ll talk about it some other time, okay?”  
“Okay,” Cas grabbed the strap of your duffle, urging you to hand it over, “Upstairs?”   
You complied with a nod, watching him climb the wooden stairs to the landing, shouting as he turned the corner, “I’m making tea, want some?”  
“I don’t know if I like tea,” he peered back over his shoulder, “But I would like to try it.”  
“Oh, you’ll like it!” You smiled, making your way to the kitchen.  
Waiting for the water to boil, you listened to the sound of Cas upstairs unpacking. The floors of the old house creaking under his feet as he made his way out to the hall linen closet for sheets and back to the bedroom. The sounds of his shuffling were soon drowned out by the whistle of the kettle. You poured the boiling water into a second pot, filled with your favorite tea leaves and your secret ingredients – a sprig of lavender and vanilla bean. After a couple of minutes, you poured the tea through a strainer into mugs, adding just a touch of honey. The smell was heavenly. Steaming mugs in hand, you marched upstairs, peering into the first door on the right, which was ajar. Inside, you found Cas sound asleep, fully clothed, on a haphazardly made bed. You grinned, stifling a giggle and set the mugs down on the dresser. You carefully slid off his shoes and socks, placing them beside the nightstand. You pulled a blanket from the trunk at the end of the bed and tucked him in snug, watching his steady breathing for a few minutes in the lamp light – pondering how he could be so ancient and wise and yet so completely naïve about the world. You switched off the lamp, retrieved your tea, and soundlessly slipped from the room.


	3. Cereal and a Shave

Leaning over the kitchen counter reading the newspaper, you casually observed Cas at the table eating a bowl of cereal. You were mildly unsettled by the milk and bits of crumb stuck in his beard.  
“What are these brightly colored pieces?” He paused between mouthfuls to inquire, scrutinizing the spoon.  
“Marshmallows,” you answered, cutting out an article that sounded like the makings of a case.  
“Marshmallows,” he tried the word on his tongue, “They are the best part.”  
“Millions of children around the world would agree,” you laughed lightly.   
“Then why are there so few of them in here?” He searched around the bowl for more.  
You suddenly couldn’t stand the messy beard any longer - brushing the paper aside and giving him your undivided attention, “Not to change the subject, and I mean this in the nicest possible way, but have you thought about shaving?”  
He stopped chewing, gulping uncomfortably, “Once…there was a lot of blood.”  
“Well, that would be a deterrent,” you raised an eyebrow askance, “Didn’t anyone show you how to do it properly?”  
He contemplated the cereal bowl self-consciously, finally confessing, “I’ve found that one can only ask so many questions relative to basic hygienic practices before people become uncomfortable and walk away.”  
You masked your amused grin with a yawn, “I can see how that would be a problem.”  
“It is one of many frustrations I have discovered since becoming human,” he bobbed his head in agreement.  
“Well, if we’re going to work a case, you’ll need to get cleaned up,” you motioned toward the bathroom, “I’ll show you.”  
He gazed at you apprehensively.  
“Castiel,” your tone was playfully stern.  
He sprang to his feet and headed to the bathroom as directed.  
“First, you need a good lather,” you whisked brush in bowl and applied the silky foam to Cas’ jaw, neck, and upper lip.   
“Who taught you to shave?” He opened and closed the ivory-handled straight razor, examining the blade, nicking his thumb on the sharpened edge.  
“Really Cas?” You grabbed the razor from him, wrapping a washcloth around his thumb to stop the bleeding, “My grandfather, these were his.”  
He smiled apologetically, offering his chin to you, shutting his eyes, wincing in anticipation.  
“Eyes open, and relax,” you ordered, holding up the glinting piece of metal to his cheek, demonstrating, “Down strokes only.”   
He nodded ever so subtly in understanding.  
Gazing up at his chin, you realized his greater height would be a hindrance to your ability to shave him properly. “You’re too tall,” you lamented, scooting up to sit on the edge of the counter, you grasped him by the waist, guiding him closer to stand between your legs. He was still too tall, so you pressed down on his shoulders, encouraging him to stoop a little lower.   
He did so, balancing himself by placing one hand lightly on your thigh, the other on the counter beside you. “Better?” He questioned through foamy lips.  
The breath hitched in your chest as you realized just how intimately close he was, how warm his hand was on your leg, and how exhilarated it made you feel.  
He gazed into your eyes trustingly, waiting expectantly for further instruction.  
“Better,” you barely spoke the word, concentrating all your will on the razor balanced deftly in your fingers, setting to work, carefully peeling away the intolerable beard.


	4. Nightmares and Birthdays

Cas burst through your bedroom door, breathless, disheveled, sweaty.  
“Cas, what’s the matter?” You jumped upright in bed, instinctively reaching for the knife under your pillow.  
“I had a…a…some kind of vision. It was terrifying,” he looked over his shoulder, spooked.  
You relaxed your grip on the knife handle, “Were you asleep?”  
He nodded, wide blue eyes churning in distress.  
“It’s okay. It was a dream, a nightmare,” you patted the space on the bed beside you, “Come on, sit down.”  
He climbed into the bed beside you, reclining against the headboard, closing his eyes, catching his breath.  
“Want to tell me about it?” You squeezed his shoulder comfortingly.  
Eyes still shut tight, he shook his head in the negative, “Could I just stay here for a while?”  
“Of course,” you soothingly trailed your fingers down his arm, closing the photo album you’d been flipping through before the interruption.  
He opened his eyes, first studying your hand on his arm, then focusing interestedly on the album, “What sort of book is that?”  
You tapped the leather cover, “Old photographs, from when I was a kid.”  
He met your eyes, silently asking permission to be shown the contents, understanding how protective you were of your past.  
You passed the book to him, “Go ahead.”  
The first pages chronicled a trip to the local field days. You were pictured in your father’s arms, ice cream cone with rainbow sprinkles dripping down your shirt, sticky fingers tangled in his hair, a gleeful smile on your face. On a pony ride, looking completely horrified. Curled into a ball, exhausted, in an old red radio flyer wagon using a bag of kettle corn as a makeshift pillow. The smile on Cas’ face grew with each turn of a page until the corners of his eyes crinkled, his nightmare forgotten.  
You drew in a deep breath, knowing what was on the next page as he flipped it.  
His fingers reflexively touched the page, tracing the outline of a photo, “Dean, and Sam.” His eyes sought out yours, “I did not realize how long you’ve know the Winchesters.”  
You exhaled with a soft sigh, “They stayed with us, mom and I, that summer. My father and theirs left on a case.”  
He turned over the next page, a loose photo slipping from the plastic sleeve. He retrieved it from the bed, reading the handwritten text on the back, “Y/N’s ninth birthday party.” He reversed the photo, examining the scene captured there – you in a pink cone-shaped party hat pouting, Dean sporting two hats, one covering each ear, face plastered in a crooked grin, little Sammy digging his hand into the uncut cake in the foreground.   
You couldn’t help but laugh now, in spite of everything that had transpired recently, it was a good memory.  
Cas smiled between you and the photo, “Some things never change.”  
“That’s for sure, those boys have been making me miserable practically my whole life,” you returned the stray photo to its sleeve, still laughing lightly, “When is your birthday Cas?”  
He gazed back at you, “I don’t have a birthday. I was created.”  
“Well then, when is your creation day?” You prodded, curious.  
He stared forward, squinting, uncertain, “The calendar as humanity defines it did not exist then.”  
“Hmm,” you folded the album closed, “You’ll just have to pick a day to celebrate.”  
He looked into your eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “Then I choose today.”  
You grinned, leaning over to peck his cheek with a kiss, “Happy birthday!”


	5. The Rulebook

You crossed through the living room, toting another load of dirty laundry to the basement. Cas was still seated on the couch where he’d been an hour ago when you’d passed through, raptly scrutinizing a small white booklet with black text. Curiosity finally got the better of you and you dropped the laundry basket on the coffee table and sat down beside him, casually propping up your feet beside the basket. You tilted your head askew, trying surreptitiously to read the cover of the booklet.   
His exquisite blue eyes locked onto yours over the top of the booklet, picking up the thread of an earlier conversation from the morning, “Y/N, are you certain you don’t want me to do the laundry? I don’t mind.”  
“No, I’ve got it this time,” you waved a hand, brushing off his offer, you really preferred for your whites to stay white even though after a long lecture about laundry rules and several pairs of newly pink boxers you were certain he’d never make the same mistake again, “What are you doing anyway? I thought you’d be in the murky depths of a Netflix binge by now.”  
“This,” he sighed, frustrated, closing the booklet and picking up the television remote control, “I cannot make it function.”  
You took the remote from him, pressing the power button, nothing happened, “What have you tried?”  
“I read the manual in five languages, the so-called troubleshooting information does not help in any of them,” he glanced sadly at the black screen of the television.  
“Only five?” You suppressed a giggle, turning the remote over in your palm, prying off the battery cover.  
He gazed at you solemnly, “My Mandarin is rusty.”  
“Oh, that is a problem,” you frowned mockingly. Dumping out the old batteries, you clambered across Cas’ lap, fishing into the drawer of the end table, and pulling out a fresh set of batteries.  
“I know,” the creases on his forehead deepening, “I intend to go to the library tomorrow to rectify the situation.”  
You popped in the new batteries, pressed the power button, and dropped the remote on the couch cushion with a flourish, “Crisis averted.”  
He gaped at you as you stood, eyes glowing in admiration, watching you scoop up and cradle the laundry basket in your arms.  
“Two rules for malfunctioning technology, Cas,” you flashed him a grin, “One, if it doesn’t work, turn it off and then back on again. And two, if that doesn’t work, change the batteries or plug the charger in.”  
“Humans have so many of these unspoken rules,” he shook his head, asking earnestly, “Do you think the library will have a book of them?”


	6. Confession(s)

You staggered through the front door, trying and failing to be quiet as you shut and locked it again. Turning around, you found Cas on the couch, reading a book, pretending he wasn’t concerned about your whereabouts and sitting there waiting for you to return. “Hey Cas,” you flopped over the back of the couch, practically landing in his lap, “Lead didn’t pan out. Well, it did, and then it didn’t, and then I got bored waiting.”  
“Are you alright?” He pressed a palm to your forehead, “You don’t look well.”  
“I’m swell,” you giggled at the rhyme, head buzzing, “Can’t you tell?”  
He only squinted at you with concern.  
You grinned foolishly back at him. You’d spent the past few hours at a dive bar, a hopeful stranger buying you drink after drink of the top shelf stuff. Of course, when push came to shove at night’s end, you turned them down. It was Cas that you wanted, Cas that you’d been thinking about all night. Alcohol courage flowing through your veins, you hurled yourself forward, clawing at his shirt, desperately crushing your lips against his.  
Tasting the vodka on your mouth, he grabbed your wrists, twisting himself away, “Y/N, what are you doing?”  
You glared at him, “What’s wrong? Don’t you like me?”  
“It’s not that, I…you’ve been drinking. I’m here, I’m convenient. I may not have been human very long, but I know how this particular situation ends,” Cas held you at arm’s length, “Someone gets hurt.”  
“It’s not like I’m going to stab you in the morning,” you smirked, then pouted at his stone faced response. Even in your inebriated state, you could see the pain your words caused. The room suddenly slanted sideways and you lurched forward.   
“You’re drunk,” he stood, scooping you up into his arms and carrying you upstairs. When he laid you on the bed, you clumsily reached out for him. He caught your hand, and folded it across your chest. He held you like that for some time, watching as your breathing slowed and your body relaxed. Once he was certain you were asleep, he leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

The smell of brewing coffee and bacon roused you. Your head was pounding out of your ears and the light hurt your eyes. You sat up, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, squeezing your head between your hands, massaging your temples. Glancing sideways, you spotted the Aspirin and water on your nightstand, and gratefully downed the pills. You stumbled toward the bathroom, shedding your clothing and turning on the cold water. As you stood under the stream of cool water, your head pounded a little less, but your heart pounded a bit more remembering you’d thrown yourself at Cas last night. You closed your eyes and let out an embarrassed groan. At least he hadn’t packed and run, he was still here. Maybe it wasn’t as mortifying as you remembered. You shut off the water and donned a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt, toweling your hair dry. Taking a deep breath, you stepped out of your bedroom and headed for the kitchen.  
Cas was busy over the stove when you entered, monitoring crackling bacon and scrambling eggs.  
“Morning,” you grabbed a mug and poured yourself some coffee.  
“Good morning,” he glanced over at you, “Hungry?”  
You nodded and sat down at the table, warming your shower cold hands with the mug.  
He dished up two plates of eggs, bacon and toast, and took his usual seat across from you.  
You munched on a piece of plain toast, observing Cas as he spread some strawberry jam over his, smiling inwardly at his sweet tooth. He was acting like last night never happened.  
You half-heartedly riffled through the newspaper, noting he’d already read it, “Anything interesting?”  
He met your eyes, and you could see then by the trepidation in his gaze that as much as he was trying to act normal, your actions had changed everything, “Yes, but the brothers are already following up.”  
“Oh,” you looked away, shoveling a fork full of eggs into your mouth. ‘Great,’ you thought to yourself, he didn’t even want to work a case with you after what you did last night. Your eyes began to burn as you fought the well of tears threatening to spring forth. The rest of breakfast was finished in awkward silence, save the clanging of utensils on plates. You pushed away from the table, taking the dishes to the sink, turning the water on high to mask the sniffle of tears.  
After a few minutes, Cas came up behind you, one hand reaching around to turn off the water, the other settling tenderly on your mid-back, turning you around and pulling you into a warm hug, “Do you want to talk about last night?”  
In response, you entwined your arms tightly around him, mumbling into his shirt, pouring out what was weighing on your heart all at once, “Cas, last night, it wasn’t just because I was drunk and you were here. You’re here…you’re here because I need you. I can’t imagine life without you anymore. I…I love you. It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way, just please don’t leave.”  
He rested his chin lightly on your head, sliding his hand slowly up your back to your neck, tousling his fingers in your damp hair, voice soft, reassuring, “Y/N, I’m not going anywhere.”  
Relieved, you couldn’t hold back the deluge of tears any longer, collapsing and sobbing quietly against his chest.   
He let you cry, squeezing you close, supporting you, until your tears abated.  
You gradually loosened your grip around him, moving a hand to his chest, angling your body away from his, amazed to find a loving smile on his face and clear blue eyes gleaming back at you affectionately.  
He cupped a hand to your cheek, sweeping away the last of your tears with his thumb, whispering, “And I do feel the same way.”   
Placing your hand over his, pressing your cheek into his palm, you closed your eyes. Your heart swelled when you felt the gentle brush of his lips against yours.


	7. Water and Fire

“The weather forecast calls for biblical floods,” Cas stated, face lined with worry, “I do not believe we are prepared.”  
“Cas, we’re good,” you gestured to the kitchen table. “Batteries, flashlights, candles, matches, firewood, water, and C rations if it comes down to it,” you hoisted the final grocery bag onto the counter and began unpacking, “We’re better prepared than most of the town.”  
“You forget, I’ve witnessed biblical flooding,” he wrung his hands, voice gravel, “Noah’s neighbors thought they were prepared too.”  
You stifled a giggle, turning towards him, frowning in mock seriousness, “So you’re saying you’d feel better if we had an arc?”  
He pressed his lips, subtlety squinting his eyes, “Are you saying you wouldn’t?”  
A grin danced across your face as you playfully shoved his chest, “You’re too much.” You dove back into the grocery bag.  
He came up behind you, winding his arms around your waist, peppering a soft kiss below your ear, “So, that’s a yes?”  
You reclined against his chest, taking his hands in yours, “I’ve got everything I need right here.”  
He nuzzled your neck, smiling and laughing when you squealed beneath his stubbly chin.  
“Cas, stop it! Castiel! That tickles!” You twisted around in his embrace, ducking to escape; holding him at arm’s length, breathless, laughing, admiring the glowing smile on his face.  
He held his hands up innocently, conceding, “Done, promise.”  
You chewed your lip skeptically, warily stepping closer, entwining your arms around his neck, standing on your tip toes to kiss him, lips moving easily against each another. Dropping back to your heels, you remembered, “I almost forgot, they need help at the bridge filling sand bags. I told Jim you’d come down. I can finish battening down the hatches here if you go.”  
“Of course I’ll help,” he nodded, leaning down to steal a parting kiss.

You looked at the wall clock again - an entire thirty-seven seconds had elapsed since you last checked it. You dialed Cas’ cell again, all circuits still busy. Or it could be the fact that the power was out. You stared into the candle flame, telling yourself he was fine, just busy at the bridge. You knew they would work until the very last moment they were able in order to save the bridge – it was the town’s only connection to the outside world. The clock again – forty-three seconds gone this time. Over the rushing wind and heavy rain, you heard the slam of the side fence door. You stood to look out the window into the darkness. Cas burst through the door, soaked, shivering, weary.  
“Holy hell,” you threw your arm around him, ushering him to the bathroom, clumsily grabbing towels off the shelf, tugging at his useless raincoat, “Get out of these clothes, dry off. I’ll be right back.”  
He nodded, teeth chattering, calling out after you as you dashed up to the bedroom, “R-r-reached f-f-flood level, h-h-had to ab-b-bandon…”  
When you got back downstairs, you followed the trail of towels to find him on the couch, hugging his knees to his chest, wrapped in a fleece throw. He gratefully accepted the clothes you held out.  
“I’ll start a fire, warm you up in no time,” you grabbed the matches from the mantle, stoking the kindling in the fireplace and setting several large logs in as the fire caught. “You know, this is how the house used to be heated,” you went to sit beside him, slipping your arm around him, pulling him against your chest, vigorously rubbing his shoulders, continuing to ramble, hiding your concern, “That’s why all the rooms cluster around the way they do.” You pulled the fleece up over the both of you.  
He trembled involuntarily, “I think we saved the bridge.”  
“I never doubted it,” you swept the matted damp hair from his forehead.  
“What do we do now?” He reached up to grasp your hand, interlocking his fingers with yours, the wind raging outside the shuttered windows.  
“Wait,” you were relieved to feel the warmth returning to his fingers, “But in the meantime, how does hot chocolate sound?”  
“I don’t know, squishy?” He answered.  
“You’d think by now I’d remember to be more specific when I ask you questions,” you giggled, slipping off the couch, kneeling by the hearth and setting a kettle to boil over the flame, “You’ll like it, it’s a drink. Melted chocolate, with milk and marshmallows.”  
“You had me at marshmallows,” he smiled.  
“I know,” you winked, crawling back up next to him.  
He lifted the fleece for you to get back underneath, “What else is there to do?”  
“Hmm, wild storm, no power for maybe days,” you rolled to face him, folding a leg across his lap. “I simply can’t think of a single other thing to do…,” you toyed with the collar of his shirt, watching him watch your fingers methodically trace the muscles of his chest through his sweater. You ghosted your lips over the angle of his jaw, breath hot in his ear, “…how about you?”  
He gazed into your eyes, his deep blues flickering back at you in the firelight, dawning realization in his features, hand skimming your thigh, “Oh.”  
“Oh?” You smiled, arching an eyebrow playfully, “You’re going to have to elaborate.”  
He gave you a coy smile, hand curving up around your waist to pull you closer, “Y/N, you’re very good at lighting fires.”


	8. Small Talk

“Cas, I hope you have a really good reason for dragging me home, because I know you made up the text from Dean about a case. You’re a terrible liar,” you kicked off your sandals, collapsing onto the couch, “When you go to a backyard barbeque, you generally stay long enough to get to the actual barbeque portion.”  
He sat on the opposite end of the couch, avoiding your gaze, staring guiltily up at the ceiling, “I find these social gatherings exceedingly awkward.”  
“You’re going to have to give me a specific example to chew on here,” you nudged Cas’ thigh with your toes repeatedly for emphasis, knowing he disliked it, or at least pretended to for your amusement, “You know, seeing as I’m half starved.”  
Cas grabbed your foot, sternly threatening to tickle it if you persisted, tone frustrated, “Jim asked me what I thought about the game.”  
“Seems pretty innocuous so far,” sticking out your tongue, you yanked your foot away, tucking it safely under a knee, “And?”  
“And,” his expression dour, “Not observing any kind of game in progress nor having participated in a game, I asked - what game?”  
“I see,” you shook your head, putting on your best sympathetic smile, “What happened then?”  
“His reaction left me even more confounded,” Cas shook his head, “He said to me – you said it buddy, not even worth calling it a game in such a one-sided match up.” He gazed at you imploringly, “What does any of that even mean? I feel foolish trying to blend in when I never understand what people are talking about.”  
“Oh Cas, don’t be so literal,” you crawled across the couch to hug him, “Jim was asking you about the football game. A lot of people watched the game on TV Sunday. The Broncos pretty well wiped the field with their opponents.”  
“How do you know?” He furrowed his brow, “I very clearly recall that we spent all of Sunday in bed…”  
You caught his words with a kiss, breaking away only when you sensed him relax, “Yes, I also very clearly recall not watching the game on Sunday.”  
A half-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, his cheeks faintly flushing pink at the memory.  
You grinned, laughing lightly, “Small talk, humans rely on it in most social situations. All I had to do was check the top news headlines on Monday while searching for possible cases. Five minutes, ten at most, of time invested skimming stories and I’m covered for days of small talk.”  
“That’s all?” His blue eyes swirled with skepticism.  
“Trust me, very few people want anything more than superficial conversations. And even fewer of them want to talk about anything besides the weather, sports, and which celebrity is secretly dating which celebrity,” you patted his firm chest, “Oh, and which celebrity may or may not be pregnant.”  
“All of that sounds extremely uninteresting,” Cas frowned, “What’s the point of going through the motions?”  
You shrugged, “I guess because it’s the only way to find the interesting people in the crowd, the ones that have common interests, that become friends. Like Sam and Dean.”  
“I see,” he slipped his arm across your shoulders, snuggling you closer, “Is that how you found me?”  
You smiled reflexively, reaching over your shoulder to squeeze his hand, “You were interesting the moment I met you. No need for small talk.”  
He sighed contentedly, kissing the top of your head.


	9. Pt. II - Chicken Soup for the Fallen Angel's Soul

“Gesundheit,” you frowned at Cas - it being the third time he’d sneezed in the last few minutes. It was an odd sound coming from the former angel, and one he did not attempt to suppress in any way, rattling his body and the couch you shared like an earthquake.

“Thank you,” he sniffled. Rubbing his nose with the back of his sleeve, he continued, “Ancient superstition said that evil spirits use a sneeze as an opportunity to enter the body. It’s why people respond the way they do, even after hundreds of years. Of course, as with many ancient things, they got it all wrong. Sneezing is simply a reflex. As you well know, demons don’t require a sneeze to possess a human.”

“Or it’s a sign that you’re getting sick,” you pressed your palm to his forehead, noting his clammy skin and slightly flushed cheeks, “how do you feel?”

He shrugged, staring up at your hand, blue eyes crossed, “Fine, except my nose. It tickles.”

“Uh huh, I see,” your frown deepened, “I know just the thing to fix a tickling nose.”

He coughed convulsively into his lap, gazing up at you with glassy eyes once the fit passed, “What about a scratchy throat?”

“Yep, sore muscles and a headache too,” you beamed, playfully mussing his hair.

“That would be helpful,” he smiled weakly, body racked by another cough, “other than that I feel fine.”

“Fine, right,” you stood, carefully tucking him in beneath a fleece blanket on the couch, stooping to smooth his hair and kiss the top of his head, “You rest and focus on feeling fine and I’ll get to work preparing my grandmother’s magic brew.”

Cas drowsed while you worked in the kitchen, fever and chills causing him to toss and turn and groan uncomfortably. You alternated warm blankets with cold forehead compresses as your grandmother’s famous chicken soup recipe simmered on the stove. You hovered over the soup impatiently for hours, knowing that perfection could not be rushed, no matter how awful it was seeing Cas’ discomfort. Finally, steaming bowl of finished soup in hand, you shook him by the shoulder, gently rousing him from his fitful slumber, “Cas? Wake up sweetie.”

He sputtered and coughed, squirming his arms out from under the blanket, blinking at you through puffy eyes.

“Eat this,” you sat on the edge of the couch beside him, proudly proffering the bowl, “best cure for a cold I know.”

He accepted the bowl, cautiously lifting up a spoonful of the rich broth, placing it in his mouth, closing his eyes, and gulping it down. His eyes popped open wide, clearly not having expected your concoction to be so pleasant tasting.

“Good, huh?” You leaned back wearily on the couch with a satisfied smile.

“Y/N, I already feel better,” he studied the bowl, scooping and examining the contents with the spoon, “you never told me your grandmother was a powerful witch. What is this mixture?”

You snorted laughter, grin plastered across your face, “Witch? Not quite, just a sweet old woman from the mother country who knew chicken soup to cure a cold is an ancient superstition they actually got right.”


End file.
